The Fall
Watched rusty leaves turn brown
bend over in the autumn winds
hang on a little longer then fall
and lie in all their glorious
shades now safe from any
sudden squall that might
blow unexpectedly and hit
the birch trees. Old trees
in the grove. Too tall for
this small garden.
Watched chestnut and oak trees
against the end wall where
conkers fall and squirrels
against the end wall where
conkers fall and squirrels
scurry to hide them all in
shallow holes for springtime feasts.
And acorns where striped wasps
once flirted, laid eggs and changed
the cupped balls to magic creatures
we foolishly name galls.
All this
from a saggy chair, through blue
painted doors, an autumn shawl flung
lightly round old shoulders. Recalling
the shout of children in the field
once young, now tall with lives
uninterrupted by the thwack of ball
on bat or cry of yield.
Ahead of the game...it's only Tuesday.
